


Ecstatic Shock (n.)

by peterpan_in_neverland



Series: have you ever felt things beyond the human language? [5]
Category: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Genre: Begging, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Intimacy, Lord, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex, blame Bhargavi, but only like a little bit??, guys i snapped, guys its unhinged okay??, im just putting it in there to be safe lets be honest with ourselves, lowkey angst, lowkey pining, okay so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25521313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: “If I download Tinder, will you guys let this go?”“Super probably,” Devi says, and abandons her task of babysitting Fabiolas facemask to sit next to Eleanor on her bed, “lemme help you make your profile.”“You’re going to actually watch me do this?”“Um, yes,” Devi says, sounding almost offended, “you have to make sure it's noncommittal while also being appealing. That's a tight rope to walk, El.”“I think I could manage it, Devi.”“You probably could, but I like being in charge.”“Fine,” Eleanor relents, falling back against her pillows and letting out a loud groan, that her friends, predictably, ignore. “Just don't make me seem like a hooker.”--OR; Eleanor tries to have a simple rebound with a Tinder date that turns out to be Paxton Hall-Yoshida
Relationships: Paxton Hall-Yoshida/Eleanor Wong, background Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar
Series: have you ever felt things beyond the human language? [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778254
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Ecstatic Shock (n.)

**Author's Note:**

> My God, I cannot believe I buckled and wrote this. Why am I like this? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Please make sure to read the tags and to let me know if I missed any!

“You  _ have  _ to have a rebound,” Devi says, leaning back, idly twirling a cherry stem between her fingers. “It’s like, law.” 

“Feels like very hypocritical advice from someone who has had only one longterm relationship her entire life,” Eleanor rebuts, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes. Devi has been dating Ben since the end of their senior year, and Eleanor knows that she is head over heels in love with him, even if she would never admit it to the rest of them.

It has been six weeks since her breakup with Oliver.

It wasn't anything big, really, a mutual realization of having grown apart and discovering the want of something different. It had been very  _ “it's not you, it's me,”  _ all things considered, and Eleanor is as happy with it as she is ever going to be. He was her first love, after all, her high school sweetheart with calloused hands and soft hair, but she had always, sort of, known that he wasn't meant to be her forever. 

“Hey, I watch TV— all the main characters have rebounds.”

“But don’t those usually get complicated?” Fabiola asks, pushing her eyebrows together, and picking at the edge of her facemask, “I mean, I don’t really know for sure— I tend to avoid TV shows that focus on straight people.” 

“Fabiola is right,” Eleanor agrees, glossing over the veiled insult, “rebounds always get complicated.” 

“You’re smart enough to not  _ let  _ it get complicated, though,” Devi says, and swats at Fabiolas hand when she moves to pick at her facemask again. “It's not dry yet, stop doing that.” 

“Maybe Devi’s right,” Fabiola mumbles, pure reluctance, and leans out of Devi’s reach, “Devi,  _ stop—  _ it could be good for you to just… let out some steam. Use some dudes.” 

“If I download Tinder, will you guys let this go?” 

“Super probably,” Devi says, and abandons her task of babysitting Fabiolas facemask to sit next to Eleanor on her bed, “lemme help you make your profile.” 

“You’re going to actually  _ watch  _ me do this?”

“Um, yes,” Devi says, sounding almost offended, “you have to make sure it's noncommittal while also being appealing. That's a tight rope to walk, El.”

“I think I could manage it, Devi.” 

“You probably could, but I like being in charge.” 

“Fine,” Eleanor relents, falling back against her pillows and letting out a loud groan, that her friends, predictably, ignore. “Just don't make me seem like a hooker.” 

* * *

_ Tony: hey _

_ Ella: hey yourself _

_ Ella: sorry, I’m new at this _

_ Tony: its cool _

_ Tony: you could tell me about yourself _

_ Tony: if you want _

* * *

“I can’t believe you convinced me to get on this stupid app,” Eleanor says, drama in between the syllables.

“I take it that's your way of saying I was right?” Devi asks, not looking up from her book. She’s rereading  _ After  _ again, and Eleanor kind of hates her for it.

“No—”

“But you met someone, though.” 

“Okay, fine, yes, but that  _ doesn’t  _ make you right.”

“It makes me a  _ little  _ right.” 

“Shut up.”

* * *

_ Tony: fuck youre hot _

_ Ella: funny, i was just about the say the same thing about you _

* * *

“I  _ told  _ you it’d be worth it,” Devi says, watching Eleanor text Tony back, three weeks later. “When are you guys gonna meet?”

“I don’t know if we are, Devi— he’s the first person I’ve met on here.” 

“Yeah, and I can see in your eyes that you want him.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Text him, and say you want to meet, and then bone.” 

_ “Bone?”  _ Eleanor asks, indignation thick in her voice. Who even said bone anymore? “Please, God, never say that ever again.”

“Meet him and bone,” she repeats, just to piss Eleanor off, and she sighs heavily. 

“What if I get crazy murdered?”

“Text me or Fabiola before then, and we’ll stop you from getting crazy murdered.”

“That is  _ not  _ comforting, Devi,” Eleanor says, and tries to shake the nerves away. Tony doesn’t seem like the crazy murder type, but, then again, crazy murderers never do.

“I’m just saying,” Devi says, and Eleanor knows that she is going to veer off onto something besides the probability of Eleanor being murdered, “you’ll never know what could have happened with this guy if you don’t even try to see where it goes.” 

“You’re evil, you know that?”

“It’s one of my special skills.” Devi shrugs. “I have it on my resume.” 

* * *

_ Ella: my friend says we should meet up _

_ Ella: and i think i agree with her _

_ Tony: so do i _

_ Ella: buy me a drink, this saturday? _

_ Tony: wouldnt be caught dead anywhere else _

* * *

The bar is crowded.

That's the first thing she realizes, looking around the space, scanning faces and catching eyes. They look her up and down— the dress she wore is an electric blue, an orange scarf wrapped into her hair, holding her bangs back— and it makes her feel sick, just a little bit, and she wants to turn around.

The second thing she notices, however, is that Paxton is here. He’s sitting at the bar, nursing a scotch with ice, and Eleanor feels a tingle run up her spine. 

There's been very few moments in her life where she has been completely and utterly torn in half, and this, right here, is one of them. Generally, she is like a wishbone: there is always some bigger part of her winning out, some piece of her split soul coming out on top, her heavy indecision tipping the scales to action, whether it is good or bad. But now, looking at Paxton, she is all ice. Glaciers move slowly, but they carve out valleys, and this is going to leave a chasm running through her.

Something tips, and the scales break, and Eleanor sits down.

He looks up at her, catching her eye, fast, and she sees something run across his vision. Worry, maybe, or something deeper. “I’m kind of waiting for someone, Eleanor,” he says, and that is when she realizes.

Paxton is Tony. Tony is Paxton and she has, officially, gotten herself into a dilemma.

There are, really, only two options here. She can turn around, and go home. Block Tony—  _ Paxton—  _ and move on from this, ignore the butterflies in her stomach, the dizzy feeling she gets, the heat in her veins when his eyes catch hers. Or, she can lean into it. 

And she does.

“I know,” she whispers, pushes herself towards him, just a little bit, so he can catch the deep, earthy floral tones of her perfume, “what made you choose Tony, hmm?” She knows it is a calculated risk, the assumption that he is actually Tony, but the scales have already tipped. The tightrope is broken, and she is swinging over thin netting.

“What made you choose Ella?” he shoots back, catching on uncharacteristically quickly. “I thought you hated being called that.”

“I needed an alias. A name I hate seemed reasonable enough.” The bartender finally comes around and Eleanor orders a cosmopolitan, and Paxton laughs, just a little, and it makes her feel hazy. She knows that once the drink gets here, it will lower her inhibitions, and if she is going to start making mistakes, she wants to make them sober. “Do you still think I’m hot, even now that you know it’s me?”

“Jesus, Eleanor, what the fuck?” He tips the glass of scotch back, swallowing what's left with a deftness and distinguished lack of cringing that suggests to Eleanor that he drinks scotch, a lot, and she winces. That  _ has  _ to burn going down, but then the thought of the taste lingering on his mouth as she kisses him makes a puddle of warmth collect in her stomach. 

“I’m serious, Paxton.”

“I know, that's why I said what the fuck.” The bartender refills his glass, and, finally, Paxton settles his eyes on her, longterm. 

He is like a storm brewing. 

Not just his eyes, him, completely, in wholes. His hands could set fires and his eyes could create whirlpools and she knows, even if it is just a little bit, knowledge sitting in the back of her mind, that she would let herself burn up, let herself drown, as long as it was in him.

Her drink gets here, and she sips it, the cranberry juice stinging the back of her throat. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m not avoiding it.”

“I know what avoiding something looks like, and this looks an  _ awful  _ lot like—”

“Yes, okay,” he says, and props his elbow on the bar, leaning his face into the palm of his hand like it is a refuge, far away from her prying, “yes, I still think you’re hot.”

“That’s all I really needed.” She leans forward, knocking his arm to the side and cupping his face, slotting her fingers around his ears and kissing him. He groans, something deep in his throat, that sends a rumble through her entire body, and then his hands are all over her, every piece of her that he can reach.

It feels like a metaphor for him, the way he touches her, like he can’t commit to one spot. He has never settled down, never stayed long term, never decided on something and stuck with it, forever, and so she knows that dropping money on the bar and following him desperately out of the building is a choice that can only end in disaster, but she cannot stop it now. 

There is a moment, Eleanor supposes, during the takeoff of a rocket ship, where the people inside realize that they are hurtling forward, momentum that could not be stopped, now, for anything. The moment after liftoff is pure movement, and that is what it is like to kiss Paxton. 

Forward momentum, constant motion, nowhere to go but through, and the cab ride to his place is foggy. She knows, with certainty, that he found the slit in the wrap of her dress, because there are small, half moon fingernail marks in her skin that she traces as he unlocks the door. 

He tosses his keys on the counter and she tosses her jacket over a chair and turns around to catch his mouth with hers, again, and when she does, it is like a collision. Their teeth clash together and she tugs on his hair just to hear the ragged moan it wrenches from his throat and then, fuck, he’s pushing her backwards onto his bed— he lives in a studio, of  _ course  _ he does— and he whispers, featherlight, “I have wanted you for so long.” She cannot even process it before he moves, fast, dropping to his knees in front of her and—  _ oh.  _

It feels like systems crashing when he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Her hands drop into his hair, and it spurs him on further, sucking marks and digging his fingers into her skin, teasing, lips and teeth and tongue, and shes about to say,  _ “fuck, Paxton, don’t tease me,”  _ before he flattens his tongue against her, over the lace of her underwear. 

_ “Paxton,”  _ she keens, pushes her hips towards him, and he chuckles, just a little bit, then pulls her underwear off with his teeth and hands and tosses them over his shoulder. He pauses, looking her up and down. 

“Are you alright with this, Eleanor?” He leans back, presses kisses against both of her knees, and her mind reels.  _ Is she alright with it?  _ Fuck, yes, and she wants it more than she can remember wanting almost anything else.

Instead of saying  _ okay _ , she chokes out, “yes, please, just—” but it is broken off when he licks into her, then drags his tongue up, swirling it over her clit, and she scrapes her nails, hard, through his scalp, moaning openly into the air. 

Paxton groans, and the vibrations shoot through her, adding to the pleasurable cocktail of his mouth on her— he has pushed his tongue back into her, rubbing along her walls, and moved one of his hands from her hips to rub circles over her clit— the overpowering scent of him— scotch and chlorine and something heady, something that smells like it would be sold in a black bottle called  _ Midnight  _ or  _ Mystery,  _ filling up her senses— and the constant reminder that he wants her— he is here and real and solid beneath her hands and he wants her, if his head underneath of her dress is any indication. 

“Eleanor,” he whispers, lips brushing against her, and she breathes harder. She’s close, embarrassingly close for only having so little, but she can’t be bothered to care when Paxton presses a hot, open mouthed kiss to her folds. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“What the f-fuck?” she asks, voice hoarse and breaking, and wills herself to open her eyes. She looks down at him and  _ fuck _ , he looks wrecked: hair wild, his lips swollen and face shiny, slick looking, and his pupils are blown wide, so wide. “D-don’t fucking stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop.” 

He smirks, just a little bit, and Eleanor realizes he wants her to beg.

She has too much dignity for that, far too much dignity to give it up for him, when she could just as easily do it herself. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want him, more.

“I won’t beg you for it,” she tells him, and he smiles even wider.

“I’m not asking you to.” He moves his hand again, brushing his thumb over her clit and her reaction is cataclysmic, arching her back, her hips chasing after his hand. “Just be honest, and tell me what you want.” 

“I— oh,  _ God.”  _ He dips his head back down, sucking her clit in between his lips and— she’d hate to admit it, because she has always hated the concept of screaming in bed— but that is what she does, a loud, high pitched moan bubbling up from her chest. 

“Come on, Eleanor, talk to me.” 

“I-I want you to get me off,” she admits. It’s something significant for her, telling him, giving him a measure of power over the situation, but she supposed she owes him for her stunt in the bar. 

“Am I making you feel good? Am I getting you there?” He knows he is, he has to— her hands are shaking and her throat is scratching from the sounds he has drawn out of her, and, at some point, her legs ended up locked around his head. 

“You know you are, Paxton,” she says, and he presses his tongue against her firmer, and she realizes that he is only going to get her there if she talks. 

It breaks her resolve. 

“You feel g-good, I’m so close just—  _ fuck—  _ h-harder.” He’s listening to her, and that is almost better than not talking at all. “No one h-has ever done this and made me feel t-this good, you’re—Jesus,  _ Paxton—  _ really good at this.” 

“Keep talking, Eleanor.” She's close; her legs are shaking and her fingers are aching from the tight grip she has on his hair, but her release has been building for what feels like hours, and his skin against her is too intoxicating to give up for anything. 

“I-I want you, I want you so bad, I want y-you to make me come.” She’s not even embarrassed, anymore, the words rolling off of her tongue and breaking into the air like waves. “C’mon, Paxton, please, p-please just fuck me, m-make me come, I’m so close.” 

He hums against her, tongue swiping brutally over her clit, and growls, deep in his throat, “come for me, Eleanor, come on.” His teeth scrape against her clit, exactly the right amount of pressure, exactly what she needs, and she snaps. 

She moans his name, grinding her hips against his mouth, fingernails scrabbling against his hair as her eyes slip closed. Colours flash behind her eyelids, like a kaleidoscope being twisted, and she knows, as she feels Paxton licking against her softly, that she is going to end up here again. 

She comes down slowly and presses a hand to her forehead, inhaling long and deep as she watches, vaguely, Paxton wiping his face off on the end of his t-shirt. It should feel obscene, sitting on the edge of his bed, her dress rucked up around her hips as he cleans himself off after going down on her—  _ fuck,  _ he went down on her, and got her off, too— but it doesn’t. It just feels incomplete. 

“You aren’t gonna leave me hanging, right?” She asks, and reaches around her back, pulling the knot on her dress that keeps it wrapped around her body and letting it fall off, tossing it on the ground and standing up. Her legs shake, and almost buckle, but she manages to catch herself without him ever noticing.

She’s absurdly naked— an orange lace bra is the only thing covering her— and he is still completely clothed, but the shock in his eyes makes him look more vulnerable than she feels. 

“You want to?” he asks her. There is something bigger behind his eyes, something more, something vulnerable and alive and very, very real, and to address it would be tantamount to drafting congressional legislation, so she pushes it aside and focuses, instead, on the sauntering way she walks towards him and the way his hand curls behind his collar to pull his shirt off his body. 

“I want to.” He’s cut with muscles that she leans in to feel, and realizes she’s practically fallen into him when she finally gives into the shake in her legs. He catches her, though, pulling her up against him and the heat of his body radiates into her skin.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” He drops his hands to her thighs and, with frightening ease, lifts her up so her legs lock around his waist and walks forward until her back is pressed against his navy blue wall.

“Just fuck me, for the love of God,” she tells him, and he chuckles, a smirk slipping onto his lips before he sets her down. It’s fast; he pushes his jeans and boxers down, pulling a condom from his nightstand and tearing the wrapper open with his teeth, rolling it on. He doesn’t move, though, to press her against the bed, and she realizes with a shock that he wants her against the wall. 

“Wait, right here?” She asks, and he lifts her back up again, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to that, how easily he bends down and wraps his hands around her thighs— his hands are  _ huge  _ and she is  _ tiny  _ and one of his hands goes around the entirety of her thigh— and lifts her against him, the walls biting into her shoulder blades and hips. “Like, against the wall?” 

He is holding her with one hand and sneaking the other down her body to rub against her clit as he sucks marks into the skin of her neck. “I thought that was clear when I pinned you against it.” 

“I’ve n-never done this,” she tells him. He is moving, positioning himself at her entrance and she wants to think that this is a worse idea than it is, but there is something uniquely alluring in the idea of fucking him against a wall. 

“You’ve never been fucked hard against a wall?” Paxton asks, and there are implications there that make her heart thud against her ribcage. 

“I haven’t.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

He presses his tip against her and she gasps at the contact, tipping forward, and it’s all the convincing she needs.  _ “Yes.”  _

He eases into her slowly, and she covers her face in her hand as she grimaces. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it has been awhile, and the discomfort catches her by surprise. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and then he’s pushing her hand away and cupping her jaw with his own, and,  _ oh,  _ there is a tenderness behind his eyes that she was not prepared to encounter with him tonight.

(She is never prepared to encounter it with anyone, actually, but that is not something she wants to pick apart or attempt to deal with when Paxton Hall-Yoshida— Paxton, who she may have, secretly, just a little bit, wanted in high school— is smoothing his thumb over her cheekbone and looking at her like he would give her all the time in the world.) 

“Yeah, just— just move,” she tells him, leaning into his palm. His hands are warm, and they feel good against her skin, and she thinks it is fitting for him, actually, how the feel of his skin and the warmth of his hands makes her feel unexpectedly good. 

He moves, thrusting into her, shallow and concentrated, but even that is enough to make her toss her head back, pleasure tingling up and down her skin. But it is not enough; he promised hard, and this is everything but. 

“P-Paxton,” she whispers, amazed, a little, that so few touches, so few movements, can make her voice shake and reduce her to whimpers, “you said  _ hard.”  _

“I know.” 

“Then  _ do it _ already.” 

“Are you—” 

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” she grinds out, and moves her hips against his, fast, as best as she can from the angle, before he thrusts up into her, and any frustration lingering in her blood evaporates as she cries out. 

He is pushing her up, driving into her with force and it feels like magma is coursing through her, pushing up onto her skin, even, meeting the air and becoming lava, pure heat that has her scraping her nails down his back. 

“G-Glad you decided to come home with me?” he asks her, dropping his hand from her cheek to press it against her clit, and she jerks, sensitive and overwhelmed, but still wanting more. 

“Fuck,  _ Paxton.”  _

“C’mon, answer me.” 

“Yes, G-God, yes, I’m glad I came home with you!” He thrusts into her harder, hips snapping against hers, and she knows she’ll have faint bruises from where her skin scrapes against the wall. The angle is intense, better than anything she’s ever had before, and she’s whimpering, scratching her nails over his neck and across his back. 

“You know I’m a swimmer, right?” he pants out, dipping his head down to sink his teeth into her shoulder, sucking marks into her skin, harsh and permeated heat. “E-Everyone sees my back.” 

“I’m an— an actress, I’ll have to cover the marks yo-you’re leaving all over me,” she shoots back, and he laughs, deep in his chest, against her skin, before pushing her higher up on the wall, losing control, sinking into her deeper. “Oh,  _ God.”  _

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” 

“W-What?” 

He doesn’t answer, just circles over her clit, harder, and she realizes with a start that he wants her to come before he does. 

“Come on, Eleanor, I know you’re close,” he whispers, and she lets out a breathy moan, her eyes slipping closed, and it must unlock something in him— loosens his tongue— because he starts talking, and does not stop. “I can feel h-how close you are, I can feel what I’m doing to you, how bad you— you want me.” 

_ “Paxton.”  _

“Don’t hold back, c’mon, I want to hear you, c-come on, Eleanor.” The words slip through his lips unnervingly easily, tumbling out into thin air for only her to hear.

“You make me feel— feel good,” she says it with shocking clarity; her throat feels raw and her body feels like it is on fire, “I’m s-so close, Paxton, come  _ on.”  _

A choked off noise bubbles up from his throat— Eleanor wants to think it is a growl, wants to lock it into her mind and remember that she did that, made him want her and made him express his want in such an instinctual noise— but then he thrusts into her harder, impossibly hard, and it's all she needs to come undone.

_ “Fuck,  _ P-Paxton,” she cries out, her legs shaking, and she knows that she would have fallen if he weren’t still holding her up. It's drawn out, his release dragging hers with it, sweeping her down like the undertow in the tide, and it makes her feel like she could touch the sky.

He’s still holding her up when she comes back down, and, as if born out of a habit scarcely made, she pushes her hand through his hair, smoothing it down and rooting out the tangles that she helped to create. He looks up at her, just a touch of reverence in his gaze, before it falls back behind his eyes, and he looks like the tired, world weary boy she had found sitting at the bar. 

“Hey,” she says, slides a hand down to his cheek, kisses his nose, because she can, “I’m gonna need you to put me down, so I can use the restroom and, y’know…” she doesn't want to say it, doesn’t like the notion that this will be over and done after she gets dressed, with only shaken legs and purple hickeys to remember him by.

“Yeah, yeah.” He eases out of her and unwraps her legs from his waist and sets her down, hands at her hips, to make sure she is steady, before he steps away to tie off the condom. 

She is still wearing her bra, and she feels almost more naked with it on than she would without it. She picks her dress and underwear and purse up off the floor, and moves to the bathroom on shaky legs, her entire body feeling heavy and weighted. Paxton did that to her, made her feel like this, and even though she wouldn’t change a single part of it, the knowledge that he can do this to her— and the realization that she is going to want it, him, again— is enough to make her head spin.

She locks the bathroom door and leans against it, steadying herself before she pulls her underwear back on, sleeping her dress over her shoulders and ties the knot in the back.

_ She just slept with Paxton Hall-Yoshida, and… now what?  _

She pulls out her phone before she can reconsider it, can convince herself it's a bad idea, and types the first name she can think of,

_ el: grade b emergency here benjamin will need to dissect with your unsettlingly keen lawyer skills in the morning and im expecting attorney/client privilege asshole rat me out and i end you _

_ benjamin: Wouldn’t dream of it, Eleanor. Eight A.M. okay? _

_ el: fuck no are you insane???? _

_ el: i’ll meet you an hour after whenever i get up and youre paying for coffee because im poor _

_ benjamin: Naturally. See you tomorrow, text me when you get home. _

_ el: how do you know im not home? _

_ benjamin: You never make Grade B mistakes from home, Eleanor. _

_ el: fuck you _

* * *

“So, what did you do?” Ben asks, straight to the point. His fashion sense has only gotten more pretentious since high school— he is wearing a tailored suit and a tie that Eleanor knows must match his socks, and one of the dresses in Devi's closet. She wants to hate them for being  _ that  _ couple, but it is so disgustingly cute, and they are so disgustingly happy, that she can't bear to begrudge them for it.

“It’s more of a who, actually,” she admits, then winces as Ben drops his face in his hands and groans. 

_ “Please,  _ God, tell me you haven’t broken up a family,” he says, and she's a little insulted by the implication that he thinks she is a homewrecker, but then she realizes he’s kidding when he winks at her, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Who is it, El? Just tell me.”

“You aren’t gonna be proud of me.” 

“I know.” 

“Like, your proud levels will be right around where they were that time I almost joined a cult.”

“Just  _ tell me,  _ Eleanor, for the love of God.”

“I slept with Paxton,” she says it fast, then watches as Ben's face cycles through dozens of unreadable emotions, before he drops his head back into his hands again. 

“Like, Paxton Hall-Yoshida?” he asks her, between his fingers, and she grimaces. 

“That's the one.” 

“The guy your best friend— and  _ my  _ girlfriend— almost dated sophomore year.”

“We both know who he is, Ben,” Eleanor says, a bite to her voice that she can only unlock when she's being chastised, “you don’t need to give me all his credentials.”

Ben groans, then pulls his head from his hands, shaking it, “Okay,” he finally says, slotting his fingers together and dropping them on the cafe table. “Do you want advice from me as your friend, or as your lawyer?”

“Is friend lawyer an option?” 

He purses his lips. “Not really, no.”

“Give me whichever one you think I should listen to, then.” He rolls his eyes, dramatically— shes rubbing off on him—but indulges her anyway.

“Do whatever and whoever the fuck you want, Eleanor,” he says, and then grabs her shoulders, shaking her gently, “just do not get your heart broken.” 

She wants to say  _ of course I won’t, Ben, I’m not a moron,  _ but then she remembers that she does not make promises she cannot keep, so she says nothing, just nods, and ignores the worry in Ben's blue, blue eyes. 

* * *

It takes sleeping with him three more times to realize how deeply tangled into him she is. 

She wants to push it aside, to disregard it as a fluke, as something that will pass, but then lingering at his apartment after they finish turns into having dinner, turns into staying the night, turns into this.

She is pressed against him, her back flat against the plane of his chest, and she knows he is asleep by the pattern of his breathing against the back of her neck. She wants to leave, and she doesn't, because she wants to stay and make breakfast and spill coffee and taste, sugar and dregs of tea lingering on their lips and she wants to do the dishes with him, and she feels, just a little bit, like this is beginning to spiral out of control.

She extradites herself from his grasp, tucking a pillow into her place, and grabbing his shirt up off of the floor, slipping it over her head and ignoring the way it makes her feel like she is back in the circle of his arms, bathed completely in his scent. She eyes his front door, then turns away from it, knowing that she is breaking one of their unwritten rules, but not caring, not really.

She opens his fridge and wrinkles her nose. He doesn't have much of anything— some ketchup and individually wrapped slices of artificially yellow cheese and a gallon of milk with an expiration date that is far too close for comfort. She closes the fridge and sighs, turning back to look at him.

He is almost serene when he sleeps, all tanned skin and loose curls, his fingers flexing unconsciously at the pillow in the place where she was laying. She tries not to imagine he is missing her, and instead, pulls on her jeans, slinging her purse over her shoulder and walking out the door.

* * *

He is still asleep when she gets back, though hes laying on his other side, now, the pillow abandoned on her side of the bed.  _ Her side.  _ It sounds ridiculous, but it is true.

She sighs, and sets the grocery bags on top of his counters, trying to be quiet as she sorts through them. It feels like a bad idea, like something illicit, to be taking care of him, but when she opens his fridge to place a carton of eggs inside of it, she can't picture leaving it empty. 

She takes care of people. It has been ingrained in her, accidentally, all of her own doing. It isn’t something her father taught her, like to brush her teeth, morning and night, and to always take her shoes off when she goes into someone's home, or to ride a bike. This is something deeper, something she chose, and turning away from it with Paxton would be more unnatural than doing it.

That’s what she tells herself, anyway, as she pulls a pan from one of his overhead cabinets and turns the stove on, plugging in the coffee maker and adding  _ Aunt Jemima  _ pancake mix and water to a bowl. She sprays the pan with cooking oil and measures out even amounts for each pancake, adds chocolate chips, and makes coffee. 

She isn't sure if it is her persistent humming— the closing lines of  _ Wicked’s  _ I’m Not That Girl— or the smell of pancakes cooking and coffee brewing that pulls Paxton out of bed and to the kitchen, but he is suddenly looking her up and down, bleary eyed. “Did you break in?” he asks, gravel in his voice that makes want shoot through her stomach, and rubs the back of his neck. “Did you break in to make me breakfast?” 

“I stayed the night, H-Y, get a plate,” she tells him, and he shakes his head, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep from his mind, but listens to her regardless. He sets his plate on the counter for her to drop a small stack of pancakes on it— knowing, without even asking, that that is what she will do— and grabs one of the coffee cups from the counter, pouring it and taking a sip. “You’re taking it black?”

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he says, by way of explanation, and grabs his plate, shuffling to the small bar island, sitting in one of the mismatched stools. She scoffs, and pours the rest of the pancake mix into the pan for herself. 

“Put some milk in it, you fool, I know you don’t like it black.”

“This is what I deserve for getting drunk last night.”

“No, that’s not how that works, dumbass.” She spins around, grabbing the milk from the fridge and pouring some into his coffee, raising her eyebrows at him. “Take care of yourself.” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asks her, and she raises her eyebrows.

“What?”

“Taking care of me,” he says, and gestures with his fork to the stack of pancakes on his plate and the cup of coffee, “are you trying to convince me to treat myself better?”

“I'm doing it because I want to.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” She flips her pancake, and soundedly ignores him until she hears the creak of his floorboards when he gets up to refill his coffee cup. She puts her pancake— it's absurdly huge and a little burnt at the edges, and probably not completely cooked through at the center, but she doesn't really care— on her plate and turns around, when she realizes that Paxton is holding her coffee cup. 

“Here,” he says, and moves his hand, fractionally, in a gesture she knows means  _ take it.  _

“What?” is the only thing she can think to say, changing her grip on her plate so she can grab the coffee and take a cautious sip. 

Light and sweet. Exactly was she likes it. It's perfect, and he made it for her, and the tenderness of his gesture goes directly to her chest.

“You made breakfast and… went shopping, I guess?” he explains, motioning to the pink lady apples resting in a glass fruit bowl on his kitchen counter. “You didn’t have to so, yknow, I guess coffee is the least I can do to repay you.”

“You dont have to repay me.” She walks around to the other stool and slides her plate onto the fake granite of the bar, hopping up and sitting easily into the stool. “I want to do it.”

“Yeah, well, I want to repay you, so.” He sits down next to her, his refilled coffee— with milk— in his hand. 

“You don’t have—”

His fork collides with the counter with a loud metallic clatter, and Eleanor jumps in her seat. “Jesus Christ, Eleanor, can’t you just let me appreciate you?”

“What?” she breathes, taking him in— the blush in his cheeks, the tousles in his hair, the way he scrapes his fingernails against the dips in the faux granite countertop— and realizes that there is something real between them. “What did you say?”

“Forget it.” 

_ “No!”  _ she shouts, pushing herself out of her seat, and now it is Paxton’s turn to look at her with shock, his eyes wide and lips parted, and she wants to drag the truth from him with her bare hands. “No, tell me what the fuck you mean by that.”

“By what?” he asks, and she knows he isn’t doing it to make her angry, knows that she's caught him so far off guard that all sense and reason has flown, but she feels her anger rise, unbudden, anyway.

“You told me to let you appreciate me,” she grates out, trying to sound angry, trying to regain some sense of the control that Paxton has managed to snag away, “tell me what you  _ mean.”  _

Something crosses his face, before he licks his lips, and his throat bobs as he swallows.  _ Discomfort _ , she realizes. He is uncomfortable. She has put him in a position to be uncomfortable, and wondering what that means for her— for them— makes something that feels so cold it burns spread through her body. Suddenly, she wants to take it back, undo everything, undo asking and joining Tinder and sleeping with him, but then he makes a small, choked out noise, and all she wants to do is lean into him. 

“I… I like you, okay? You fill me up and you’re so sweet and funny and I love the way you frown when I order pizza with mushrooms on it, and I just— I want to spend time with you, for real, Eleanor.” 

It is unreal, looking at him look at her like this, like he could pull her in for a dance and twirl her around and dip her back and kiss her, just because, and that it could be all he ever needs again, and before she knows it, she is hugging him.

She registers, dimly, that she should be kissing him instead, but she needs to be able to breathe him in, to inhale him and exhale her worries, and the world feels better in the circle of his arms. “I want to spend time with you, too, for real,” she admits, into the warm skin of his chest, and feels him inhale against her cheek. 

He pulls back, cupping her face in his hands, and she sinks into his touch, exactly the same way she did their first night together. “Really?” he whispers, smiling wide, his voice breathy and high, excitement and joy and something else filling the syllables with helium, pulling them towards the sky.

“Yeah.”

_ “God,”  _ he breathes out, and then he is leaning in to kiss her, and the world clicks into place. He presses his lips against hers, harder, and it's almost exactly like her daydreams, sugary syrup and the richness of chocolate lingering on his lips as he parts hers with his tongue. “Hey, can you promise me something?” 

Her head is swirling too much to say anything, to say,  _ yes, of course, as long as you promise to kiss me like that for the rest of our lives,  _ so instead she nods, and he smiles even wider. 

“Take me grocery shopping with you, next time, okay?” he asks her, and she sighs, because it feels so intimate, so much like everything she has ever wanted in a home, that all she can do is nod her head in agreement before he is leaning back down to kiss her again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading. Leave a kudos if you enjoyed and a comment if you really enjoyed, because they make my cat respect me. Thank you!


End file.
